The west wing belonged to the monarch and his Weapons. This, too, she avoided, with statuelike Weapons standing guard, and the decor taking on a more regal demeanor. Portraits of past monarchs lined the walls, she knew. She had been down the corridor once before, for an awkward meeting arranged by her cousin with King Zachary. That had been long ago. Over a year.

He was showing me off as a merchant would his wares.

The thought did not make her angry. Much she had accepted in life as part of her position as the heir of Clan Coutre. Her father had always treated her this way, as an object of admiration and future alliances. A ware to be sold.

Her mother had taught her grace and composure. She had learned, though not consciously taught by her mother, a certain aloofness, as well. A detachment.

She turned away from the west wing, though it was possible one day she would have to live there among all the portraits of Sacoridia’s monarchs, and with the present king. Zachary was a good man, and this she kept telling herself.

And she kept asking, F’ryan, why did you have to leave me? But the dead could not answer.

She shifted her shawl on her shoulders, head bowed, as she walked away from the west wing. The core of the castle was like a great rectangle, with the gardens at its center, and various wings added on over time, making it a labyrinthine puzzle to the uninitiated. There were places where one had to follow corridors to an upper level in order to get to a lower level. Only the gardens hinted at the castle’s original configuration.

She turned a corner and headed for the south wing. She paused in mid-stride, her skirts brushing her ankles. Coming from the opposite direction, tailed by a Weapon and an elderly terrier, was King Zachary. His hands were clasped behind his back and his gaze to the floor as though he was in deep thought. He did not wear his fillet, the symbol of his power.

Estora thought he might pass without even noticing her, but when he approached, he looked right up at her. His eyes registered recognition and surprise. She curtsied.

“My lord.”

“My lady,” he said, with a half bow. The Weapon insinuated herself against the wall, as still as one of the suits of armor. The dog sat beside his master’s feet, panting. “You are about rather late this evening.”

“As are you, Excellency.”

He smiled, chagrined, almost shy. “I suppose I am. To tell the truth, I’ve had a little difficulty sleeping. I thought perhaps a stroll would unknot my thoughts.”

“As did I.” They exchanged fleeting smiles.

The king stroked his beard, his expression suddenly distant and a little troubled, as though he strove within himself to decide something. Finally he said, “Perhaps we could stroll together.”

Estora could decline, but it was like putting off the inevitable. Both he and she had avoided one another for long enough. If her father’s plan should succeed, she decided she might as well get to know the king a little better before they must be forced into intimate circumstances.

“Of course, my lord.”

Out of courtesy he turned to walk in the direction she had been heading. She stepped alongside him and they set off with the terrier waddling behind them, his tail wagging gamely. The Weapon fell in behind as well.

Weapons swore an oath of discretion along with the other oaths that bound them to the king’s service. Still, she couldn’t imagine the Weapons not wanting to gossip now and then, and here she was presenting a perfect opportunity. She glanced over her shoulder, but the woman who followed remained expressionless, watchful, and seemingly disinterested in the concept of King Zachary and Lady Estora walking together.

An awkward silence settled upon them. Estora’s mother had been instructive about such moments as well.

“Tell me,” Estora said, to draw Zachary out, “what do you hear of Hillander Province these days?”

It was as though a mask crumbled away from his face at the mention of his home. His delight and grateful expression told her she had asked the right question. Your function, she remembered her mother saying, is to put the man at ease. To do this, you must ask him questions that he can answer readily, and happily.

The king stroked his beard and his eyes grew distant. “I expect the fisherfolk are hauling flatfish in by the bas ketfulls. The folk there lead the quiet lives they always have.”

Estora could tell he wished to be among them. Had things turned out differently, he would be there now as lord-governor of Hillander Province, not in the castle of Sacor City as the reigning monarch. But things turned out the way they turned out, and a steward oversaw the workings of Zachary’s province until he had a child of an age to look after it. Estora blushed at the prospect that the child could very well be one of her own.

As he spoke on about the sea breezes against his face, and climbing the rounded mounts that rose from the sea, it was as though he had been transported there, and she with him, his descriptions were so vivid. She realized Hillander was not so different from Coutre.

“I, for one, have always liked the occasional raw, foggy day,” he said. “It is an excuse to stay by the fire and read a book, or to attend to some other quiet task.”

“Yes, I am of that mind, too,” she said.

As he went on, Estora noted they were making at least their fourth round of this particular set of corridors, but King Zachary did not appear to notice or care. The terrier followed merrily behind, tongue lolling. The Weapon maintained her discreet, silent distance.

King Zachary paused and chuckled. “Listen to me. I sound like a homesick schoolboy.”